


all the way to the stairway

by escherzo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Male Character, trans!Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22978789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escherzo/pseuds/escherzo
Summary: “I...” Jon hesitates, trying to corral his wandering thoughts long enough to say this right. “I like—giving. It's just complicated,” he settles on eventually, distracted by old memories. He can't quite form the words to explain the rest at the moment, but he meets Martin's eyes and licks his lips reflexively, and Martin sucks in a sharp breath.“Oh,” Martin breathes. “... Cool.”“Cool,” Jon echoes, fond and exasperated all at once.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 41
Kudos: 750
Collections: Rusty Kink





	all the way to the stairway

**Author's Note:**

> from the rusty_kink prompt here: https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?thread=344420#cmt344420 (trans!Jon/Martin, body worship). Going along with the prompt, Jon doesn't think Martin is aware of his whole situation initially, and that's discussed a bit. 
> 
> Mostly this is just ~3k of porn though. I may have gotten somewhat carried away.

“You know,” Jon says, pressing the back of his hand to his burning cheek to cool it, “I didn't know if I could still get drunk.” His words come out clumsy, and he sighs, stretching out onto the lumpy couch. It feels good. The world is faintly buzzing and he's warm all over and Martin is sprawled out on the floor opposite him, the tops of his cheekbones and the tips of his nose red, the shock of white in his hair lit up bright by the moonlight streaming in through the cracked window. He looks lovely. If Jon wasn't so comfortable where he was, he'd get up and crawl to Martin. Maybe he will in a moment.

“Guess we both can,” Martin says. His accent is more pronounced than usual, his words pleasantly rounded. He glances over at Jon. “Shitty whiskey, though.”

“Don't know why I'd have expected Daisy to have anything else stashed away.” 

“... True,” Martin says, drawing out the 'u' long enough that Jon can't help but huff out a laugh at it. 

“You are proper drunk,” he says. 

“Like you're any better,” Martin says. “What are you thinking about?”

Jon sighs, working open a button on his shirt to try and cool down a little. The words come out before his brain is given sufficient time to process and stop him. 

“Getting off the couch and getting your trousers down,” he says. 

Martin makes a small choking sound. His eyes go wide and he sits up, turning to face Jon properly. 

“ _What?_ ” he asks. “I thought—I thought you weren't interested in, um. In that sort of thing.”

Martin's wrong, and not wrong. A lot of the time he isn't, but it's not the first time he's gotten like this when he's been drinking. Something about the gentle warmth in his veins makes him want to get on his knees, fill his mouth up, have a rough hand in his hair and his senses overwhelmed by someone inside him. Sometimes he and Georgie would go through a bottle of wine and he'd spend an hour with her thighs around his head and his tongue working her over, all higher thoughts gone. 

“I...” Jon hesitates, trying to corral his wandering thoughts long enough to say this right. “I like—giving. It's just complicated,” he settles on eventually, distracted by old memories. He can't quite form the words to explain the rest at the moment, but he meets Martin's eyes and licks his lips reflexively, and Martin sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Oh,” Martin breathes. “... Cool.”

“ _Cool,_ ” Jon echoes, fond and exasperated all at once. 

There's a long pause. Martin finally closes his eyes and settles back down onto the floor, his thick body all akimbo on the rough hardwood. Only once he's closed his eyes again does it feel safe for Jon to keep looking at him. 

“Do you ever think about how impermanent humanity is?” Jon asks into the silence, some time later. 

Martin blinks. “What?”

“I was thinking about it earlier. How many civilizations we have no record of anymore because they didn't write their histories on stone or didn't have a written language to preserve. There are so many ancient languages we think are isolates—maybe we haven't looked into them enough, or maybe the civilizations whose languages were in the same family were lost entirely and all we have is the one scrap from one of them--”

It's comforting to ramble. Safe. Losing himself in more complex thoughts about the world means putting aside his own wants, his own body.

He's still murmuring about dead languages when Martin gets up off the floor and hefts him up to get him into bed. 

*

“It's complicated” is underselling it a bit, is the thing. It's not that he hates sex. He's not interested as often as would be expected to keep up a relationship, and that's part of the whole mess of fear, but there's also—well.

Martin doesn't know. 

But then, hardly anybody does. Georgie, of course, but she knew him from—before, and then they dated. And then there was Elias.

Elias, who always knows things he shouldn't. Who feeds off knowing the forbidden, the secret, watching moments that should be private. Jon didn't need to tell him. Didn't even need to ask if he knew, really. There was one moment, a year ago, where Jon was alone in his office and one of the scars from his drains twinged, the little knot of flesh under his armpit painful and itchy all at once, demanding attention, and as Jon went to scratch it Elias smiled, a faint, sickening thing, and said, “It's interesting that they still bother you after a decade.” 

“I don't know what you mean,” Jon said, knowing perfectly well Elias _did_.

“Mm,” Elias said, noncommittal, still smiling, and Jon's ears filled with the static of panic. 

He fled. Straight back to his office and his desk and was three paragraphs deep into a statement before he could help himself, drowning the fear in the voyeuristic thrill of the fear of someone else. 

But the point is, Martin doesn't know, and it's not something that just comes up in casual conversation. In the past, if they'd been stuck in close quarters for long, Jon wouldn't have been able to hide it, but he hasn't had to do his shots since he woke up from his coma, as though the Eye knew how to mold him in the image of what he should have been if the world had been a little kinder. Martin respectfully averts his eyes when Jon strips down for bed, and so he's never seen Jon's scars, faint as they are. There's never been a moment where he could just bring it up and it would have felt relevant. 

_”He doesn't know about you, does he?”_ Peter asked, there in the Lonely. _”How well do you really know each other, that you can't tell him that?”_

It was meant to be cruel. Meant to isolate him. And even now, with Peter long dead, it eats at him, a bit.

It's not that he thinks Martin would be—awful, or anything. He knows Martin loves him. These days, when he wakes with the early morning sun streaming in and Martin pressed all along his back, Martin will whisper the words into his hair and kiss the back of his neck as he crawls towards wakefulness. It helps, a little, with the knot of fear he carries with him every day. 

And it's not a secret, exactly. He's not _hiding_. But there's just no moment where it feels right to bring it up, and so he hasn't, and the longer that goes on, the more it feels wrong to break the holding pattern he and Martin exist in.

They're comfortable. 

He's thought about what words he might use. How he might explain himself. None of that is comfortable at all. 

*

“Did you mean it?” Martin asks, apropos of nothing several days later. They're both awake in the pre-dawn stillness, only the faint rustle of the trees in the wind and the hooting of a distant owl breaking the silence, and Martin is pressed close to him under the pile of thick blankets, trying to ward off the chill, one arm slung over his hip, a hand tucked up under his shirt to stroke gently at his bare stomach. Jon shivers. 

“Mean what?” Jon asks, and then Martin tucks himself closer and he can feel the line of Martin's cock pressed against him, thick and hard, and he sucks in a quick breath. “Oh. Right. Yes, I did.”

He pushes back against Martin, and Martin's breath leaves him in a quick, surprised huff. 

“You don't have to,” Martin breathes out, and Jon shakes his head. He closes his eyes, squeezing his thighs together against the rush of heat as Martin's hand tightens on his stomach. He's careful, at first, a slow rock of his hips against Jon, and Jon sighs and relaxes into it, moving with him, a hand reaching back blindly to grip at Martin's hip and coax him into rutting against Jon harder. Martin moans, a high and plaintive thing, and Jon squeezes his eyes shut, arousal coursing through him as the movement of Martin's hips grow more confident, their panting breaths and Martin's soft noises breaking the stillness of the morning. He feels so good. Jon bites his lip to hold in a noise of his own and Martin shifts, half on top of Jon, holding his body down against the mattress as he fucks against him, the solid weight of his cock sliding against Jon's arse. His movements are growing more erratic, quicker, and Jon breathes out, “that's it. Come on,” and Martin shudders against him. 

“God, you feel good,” Martin whispers. He grips Jon's hip tighter, hard enough to bruise, and pushes up into him one last time before letting out a soft, half-stifled cry and stilling. Jon can't think past the blood rushing in his ears, the slickness between his legs that threatens to overwhelm him as he shifts and his thighs rub against each other.

“Do you want--” Martin asks after a moment, breath still shaky, and Jon shakes his head.

“It's alright,” he says. “Go back to sleep.” 

Martin presses a kiss to the back of his neck and Jon can feel the smile in it. “Alright,” he says.

It's only later, once Martin's breathing is soft and even again, long breaths turning to huffing snores, that Jon takes the chance and slides a hand under his briefs to rub himself off.

It takes less than a minute. He bites his lip as he comes to stifle any noise, and Martin, still wrapped around him, his body a brand all along Jon's back, sleeps on, unaware. 

*

It doesn't happen every morning, after, but when they're both awake in the chill of the early morning air and Martin is hard against him, it happens more often than not. And some mornings Jon wakes first and finds Martin half-faded into fog, his skin grown cold, and he wraps himself around Martin as close as he can and draws him back into the world with soft, coaxing kisses until Martin comes back to him properly. Some mornings Jon wakes screaming, Martin clutching at him tight enough to hurt and whispering soothing words--“it's okay, I'm here, shh, come on, Jon”--and stroking at his back. They've taken to taking the mornings as they come. 

Some days, Jon goes with Martin to the village, if he's read one of his carefully-rationed statements recently and the hunger has subsided enough that he can look at someone who isn't Martin and keep his questions to himself. Tonight, they're at the one pub in town, an old, dingy thing with stained floorboards and a bar waxed within an inch of its life to hide all of the scratches in the wood. It always smells faintly of smoke and spilled beer. It's cozy, in its own way. A homey sort of place, and the bartender nods and smiles at Martin, not familiar enough to be a regular but not a stranger anymore either. 

“Think I could do with a beer,” Jon says, keeping his eyes on Martin and not on the scattering of people at the bar with them. Martin smiles and orders a pint for the both of them.

They stumble home together, late into the night with the moon high above them, Jon singing, “we drink, drink, to our boy Jack!” with a bit of a slur in his words, his arm wrapped around Martin's waist. He can tell Martin doesn't recognize the song, but Martin hums along obligingly once he gets the sense of the tune.

“What song is that?” Martin asks as he pulls open the door to the safehouse and shuffles the both of them inside. 

“I was in a band in uni,” Jon says, setting the three deadbolts into place behind them. “I wrote it.” 

“It's good,” Martin says. “You should sing it for me properly sometime.” 

“I should,” Jon agrees, and as he turns towards Martin he lets himself give into impulse and drops to his knees. 

“Uh,” Martin stutters out, his eyes going very wide.

“Let me?” Jon asks, his face burning as he reaches for Martin's belt. He _wants_ , so badly it makes his hands shake. He wants Martin's hands in his hair and his mouth on Martin and to not have to think about anything at all. 

“You're drunk,” Martin says, still sounding choked. 

“I always want to do this when I'm drunk,” Jon says, fumbling Martin's belt open and pulling on it until it comes free. “Just—hold onto me.”

“Right,” Martin manages, hands fumbling until they finally settle on Jon's shoulders, and Jon huffs out an impatient noise and redirects them to his hair as he tugs Martin's trousers down. He's not hard, not yet, but Jon wraps a hand around him and dips his head, taking Martin's cock into his mouth, humming out a contented noise, and Martin's hands tighten in his hair.

“Jon. Jon, oh my _god_ ,” Martin says, going high-pitched at the end as Jon starts to suck, pulling off for a moment to leave a sloppy kiss on the head of Martin's cock before diving back in, all messy suction, his hand tightening around the base and moving a little, but without much rhythm yet. Martin's hips push forward and he stammers out an apology, and Jon moves with it, letting himself settle into the pressure, bobbing his head and getting lost in the taste of it, the little wet noises he makes as spit collects at the corners of his mouth and he sinks down again. Martin's cock is solid and heavy on his tongue, his hands in Jon's hair tightening just enough to send a spark of pain down Jon's spine that makes him squirm, legs squeezing together. 

“H—how--” Martin fucks forward into Jon's waiting, eager mouth, his voice cracking on a moan, and it takes a moment for him to manage the rest. “Oh my god. _Fuck._ How deep can you go?”

Jon draws back for a moment. “No idea,” he rasps out, and then dives back in, lips wrapping smoothly around Martin and down until they meet his fist, the pressure of Martin's cock in his mouth driving all the thoughts from his head, the taste of precome on the back of his tongue. He reaches up with his other hand and rests it on Martin's arse, trying to force Martin to press in deeper. 

Martin swears under his breath again and his hips find a rhythm, deep in Jon's mouth, sliding slick over his tongue as he works himself further in until he's nudging at the back of Jon's mouth. Jon expects to choke, to have to fight against his gag reflex, but the moment doesn't come, and he lets go of Martin's cock and goes slack, and the next time Martin fucks in, Jon moves to meet him, and there's a moment of breathless pressure as he feels Martin's cock push against resistance and then past it, slipping into his throat. 

He can't breathe. He's not sure he wants to. Martin keeps him there for a second, hands tight in his hair, and then pulls back enough that he can gasp out a breath before he's pushing in again. Martin's eyes are closed, and so Jon shoves a hand between his own legs, giving himself pressure to rut against, and the rough denim of his jeans rubbing against his clit is enough to get him there, losing himself in a rush so good it's nearly painful as Martin sheathes himself in his throat again. 

Martin chokes out something, a warning, maybe, but Jon keeps him deep with both hands on his hips, and when he comes, he can barely even taste it. 

“Oh my god,” Martin wheezes, legs visibly shaking as Jon slides his mouth off, unable to resist one last sucking kiss to the head of Martin's cock that makes him shudder with overstimulation. “Oh my god.”

“Good?” Jon asks, trying not to sound as smug as he feels. 

“Yeah,” Martin says, stroking through Jon's hair more gently, and he folds himself down to sitting, knees under him and facing Jon. “Do you want--” 

“I'm alright,” Jon says, still twitching through the aftershocks. “Don't worry about me.”

“You know I always do,” Martin says. His face is so fond. “Let's get us to bed, hm?” 

Jon resists the urge to ask Martin to carry him, but it's a near thing. 

*

“Jon,” Martin asks into the stillness of another early morning. “Would you—let me, sometime?” 

Jon considers, for a long moment, whether or not it's best to just pretend to still be asleep, but his breathing has sped up enough that it'd be a struggle to play it off. 

“I...” He hesitates. “Well. It's just.”

“It's okay if you don't want to,” Martin rushes to reassure him. “I just, um. I just keep thinking about eating you out and I'd really love to do it for real if you're up for that.”

Jon freezes. Not at the sentiment, but at the words. _Eating you out._

Martin is quiet for a long moment. “Did you not know that I knew?” he asks finally, voice so soft it makes Jon's chest ache a little. 

“You do?”

“The...” Martin sighs. “The bracelet the hospital put on you had an “F” on it. I thought it was just a typo at first, but I tried to get them to correct it and they wouldn't, so.”

“Oh.” The knot in Jon's stomach twists. “Right. Well. I—I didn't mean to keep it a secret, it just never seemed like quite the right time to mention it, and then it started being strange because it'd been so long and I hadn't mentioned it, and--” 

He's rambling, can't quite seem to stop himself and then the arm Martin has wrapped around him tightens, pulling him closer. 

“Jon. It's okay,” Martin says. “Really, it is.” 

Jon relaxes a fraction, closing his eyes, but the queasiness still lingers in his gut. “In... in answer to your earlier question,” he says finally, “yes.”

“Yes?”

“I'd let you. I didn't want to before because I—well. I didn't want to have to talk about... all of this. But if you already know, well.” He huffs out half a laugh. “I suppose that's that part sorted.” 

Martin leans over him and kisses him on the cheek. “I wish I'd gotten to find out from you,” he says. “But it doesn't make me love you any less, if that's what you were worried about.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, twisting around enough to lay a gentle kiss on Martin's lips. “That's—that's good to hear.” 

The queasy fear in his stomach settles, a little, still lingering around the edges but gentle enough that he's able to close his eyes and drift back to sleep, Martin's enveloping warmth lulling him into the dark. 

*

“Jon,” Martin chokes out, hands tightening in Jon's hair. “Can we shift around a little?” 

“Mm?” Jon asks around a mouthful of Martin's cock, surrounded on all sides by a mess of blankets as he bobs his head.

“I—if you'll let me, I want to--” Martin pushes down the covers and the shock of the cool air hits Jon all at once, suddenly exposed, and he shivers. “Let me go down on you?”

Jon squeezes his eyes shut, legs tightening. He's already aroused enough to be painful from the feeling of Martin's cock in his mouth, his hands in his hair, controlling him and moving him where he wants. He nods. 

Martin tugs Jon upwards, until he's nearly straddling Martin's face, and then he smiles up at Jon, his face flushed bright red, and asks, “Turn around?” All at once Jon gets where he's going with this. He takes an unsteady breath and re-positions himself, turning around leaning down so that he can get Martin into his mouth again and distract himself from the way he can feel Martin's hot breath against him, the way Martin's big hands grip his thighs.

“What do you like?” Martin asks, and Jon has just enough time to shrug before Martin pulls Jon down against his face and licks a broad stripe across Jon's clit. He groans, low and long, only muffled by his occupied mouth, and bobs his head faster as Martin takes his clit into his mouth and _sucks_ , tongue lapping at the underside, so good it's nearly painful, and he can't help but push his hips back into it as Martin's tongue works, hearing the slick, wet sounds. 

“You look gorgeous like this,” Martin says as he draws back to take a breath. “Fuck. Could do this all day. You taste so good.” 

Jon flushes and shuts his eyes again, and he lets himself be lost to it, the steady suction of Martin's mouth on his clit, the overwhelming pressure of Martin's cock in his mouth, the way it presses deeper when he cries out, Martin flicking his tongue against the tip. Martin comes in a rush, too preoccupied to warn him, and he swallows it down and pulls off, lapping at the remainder to clean him up. 

“My turn,” Martin says, grinning as he nudges Jon to roll over onto his back and spreads Jon's thighs wider with his big hands. He dives back in, fingers gathering slickness before one presses slowly inside him, filling him up and making him squirm as Martin sucks hard at him again, perfect heat and pressure and his finger presses deep and then curls up, and all at once Jon is lost to it, clenching around Martin's finger and coming in a rush of heat and wet, his thighs shaking. 

Martin doesn't stop. He nudges a second finger in alongside the first, tongue working against Jon, and the noises he makes are ones of pure contentment, like he could do this forever, like he would like nothing more. Jon moans, loud, not quick enough with his hand to properly cover his mouth, and Martin pulls off. 

“Want to hear you,” he says, and the whole bottom half of his face is soaked, his lips shining, and Jon shudders out a breath and reaches down to twine his fingers in Martin's hair. 

“Okay,” Jon says shakily, and Martin sucks hard at his clit again, both fingers fucking into him, and Jon clutches at Martin and cries out, thighs wrapping around Martin's back as he comes again, making the slick mess of Martin's face worse, and still Martin keeps going, fingers still working. 

“You good?” Martin asks, and Jon nods helplessly. Martin's tongue on his clit is nearly painful at this point as he twitches through the aftershocks and he can feel tears beading at the corners of his eyes, but Martin doesn't look like he wants to stop and so Jon slides his other hand into Martin's hair as well and holds on for dear life as Martin's perfect, clever tongue keeps working at him. By the time he comes a third time, he's crying for real, his whole body buzzing and his ears ringing, and by the time a third becomes a fourth, his moans have gone weak and shaky and he very nearly passes out entirely as it overtakes him. 

“I can't,” Jon finally says, voice hoarse. “Tap—tapping out.”

“Good?” Martin asks, and his voice is wrecked too, and oh, _god_ , Jon has made such a mess of him. His lips have gone a deep, shiny red, his whole face is slick, even the tips of his hair are wet. Jon feels a faint, shuddery shock of exhausted arousal go through him at the sight. 

“Very,” Jon breathes out. “I need a minute, though. Or five. I think you might have broken me a bit.”

Martin hums, beaming at him from between his legs. “I can do five.” 

They make it as far as the shower before Jon is back on his knees, Martin's hands tugging at his hair and his cock in Jon's throat, and it's only the hot water running out that stops Martin from going for a fifth, after. 

*

For the first time in a long time, Jon sleeps through the night, and remembers nothing of his dreams when he wakes.


End file.
